The Fold Out
by midtowngirl89
Summary: Literati. They're friends. Yeah, they're friends. [Chapter three up].
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Literati. One-shot. They're friends. Yeah, they're friends.

Disclaimer: I own…absolutely nothing, foo. Title belongs to The Jealous Sound.

A/N: Ack. It's been a while. I'm a bit rusty on the Literati. Or Gilmore Girls for that matter. Or Fan Fiction for that matter. Alright, it's only been a couple months since I posted something, but that's a long time for me! I have a love/hate relationship with this piece. That I wrote in like an hour. I just had to post something. Sorry it's so short. That's me, after all. Quiz time: after last night's episode, I wanted to A) kill Logan; B) Yell at Rory; C) Marry Jess; D) all of the above. Hope you picked D. I mean, honestly. Haha. Okay, enough stalling…onto the main event! I love reviews. Like, um, a lot.

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They're friends. Yeah, they're friends.

She hears his voice on the phone, static and city, and she wraps the invisible cord around her finger, sighing into the speaker about how she misses his hair and his cigarettes.

And he comes up on weekends, habitually, always with reasoned excuses (I've got to help Luke with the thing; did you know they don't have snow in Philly?), because all this driving with the broken heater blasting frigid, recycled air and the radio looping ancient country songs can't go to her head.

Her fingers tightly hold the compact novel, skimming page 57, with the diagonal rip, and the letters don't quite match up. He'd wrestled her for it, her knee jabbing his thigh, her clammy hands smothering his mouth, scraping his teeth. She'd won; he'd relented, fetched her the Scotch tape and said he was sorry, locking his middle and index fingers behind his back.

The words don't spill like they used to, brain to mouth and mouth to air, but they'll sit in silence, and it's okay. His lip still drags, stalls, when sounds do manage to escape and he's standing behind the counter of Luke's, a dishrag in one hand and her skin in the other, in her mind.

They haven't kissed. They won't; the blonde boy with the metallic Porsche is waiting outside, revving the engine, grey smoke floating from the rear. But she winds her arms around his shoulders, his hot breath on her neck, open lips treacherously close to her collarbone. Friendly hugs, she tells the blonde boy, who nods and tightens his mouth, white knuckles around the leather bound steering wheel.

She drives to Philadelphia, late night, black ice, her frozen fingers fumbling with the volume dial. The CD plays smoothly, sliding from track to track (he did this on purpose). She can barely make out the address, scribbled on a napkin from a bar, amber liquid staining the numbers. He moves fluidly from the window, dipping in and out of the light streaming from a table lamp.

She's shivering, her knees shaking under her short cocktail dress in front of his door. He opens it on the second knock, striking a box of cigarettes against his jeans. And his mouth contorts as he lets her in, trailing his fingers along the small of back, pulling a cigarette from the box and slipping it behind his ear.


	2. Part Deux

A/N: Hey, look! Midtowngirl89 is continuing a story that was originally a oneshot! --Shock from the audience, cheers from readers.-- Yes, I know. I was curious as to where it could go. My only fear is that the one chapter really does not blend with this one. I mean, it's a very different format. Let's say the first chapter was more like a preface, then. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! And I will most likely continue it more. Most likely. Oh, and this chapter picks up where the last left off. If that wasn't obvious.

Disclaimer: I borrowed lines from "Let the Games Begin".

XxXxX

"Coffee?" He waves the foil envelope over the white counter and her eyes wander to his fingers.

"Do you even have to ask?" she replies, her tongue protruding the corner of her mouth. His shirt rises and falls as his arm swoops to pick up the coffeepot, exposing small strips of olive skin below the hem. The air is still and she smells wet snow even now, inside his living room. She surveys the small apartment; the rectangular kitchen permeates the bedroom and the den, and the bathroom, off to the left, is the only room with a proper door. Her voice breaks the quiet, "I like your place, Jess."

"It's no pool house," he scoffs, leaning against the rusted refrigerator.

"No, really, I love it. I mean, I've never had a place of my own. It must feel good." She finally shimmies out of her scarlet overcoat, brushing icy fragments off the sleeves, and lays it over his straight-backed chair. Her words settle and he thinks she's right. This is _his_.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asks abruptly, scouring through the drawers next to the sink, retrieving handfuls of pink, blue, and white packages. "I've got it all."

"Same as always." She flickers her sapphire eyes, awkwardly looming around the room, dragging her fingers along the sparse picture frames on the end table. He catches this; she assumes he remembers her sugar and cream preferences, and actually, it's almost mechanical as he opens the minute packets, shaking them into the steaming mug.

XxXxX

She sighs audibly, her hair strewn across her pallid complexion, thick bangs shadowing her forehead. The glowing digital clock, neon in the muted light, strikes two (impossible, but he hears the seconds tick). She faintly touches her ear, gesturing to him, and he imitates her movement, feeling the coarse cigarette still settled where he'd left it hours before. "So, tell me, what's your decision on smoking that depending on?"

"On what's gonna happen." He smiles, jerks his lip to the left, and cocks an eyebrow.

"When?" she formulates, following his lead.

"Now."

"You remember that?" Rory laughs, tilting her head back in a childish fashion. But her breath suddenly hitches and she recalls his hands on her hips, her fingers behind his neck, skin on skin, lips on lips, and the distressing smell of gasoline.

"I just…I just remember wanting to kiss you so badly," he stutters, forcing air from his lungs. The room has never felt quite so heavy, and the mood alters, reminiscent to now. He doesn't believe she's so _here_, so existent in the cold of his apartment, her thighs printing ellipses in the cushions of his couch. Her eyes fall to the floor.

"We're going to break up, I know it. My name will be crossed out of his little black book before the week is over," she wavers, changing so quickly, and he wanted to stay back in three years ago. But he's pulled to this night, his head struggling to stay above the tide he feels swallowing his body. He blinks.

"What?"

"Logan. We had a fight. This is it. No fixing. No trying. He can't see me trying."

"Oh. Right," Jess nods, but he's a thousand miles away. No. Scratch that, more like a couple hundred. _How far is it to Stars Hollow?_

"I'm sorry. It doesn't matter. I interrupted your whole night, and I sit here complaining about my obstinate boyfriend," she apologizes, toying with the impractical lace of her dress, the ribbon skimming her knees.

"It's fine, really."

"What _were_ you doing before I got here?" Rory asks curiously, nibbling her already stunted fingernails. She stifles a yawn and her eyelids flutter.

"Writing…or trying at least. It's frustrating," he admits, his eyes lingering on the heap of paper concealing a small table near his bedroom.

"Then get back to it. Now. I insist. Don't quit on account of me being here. Write me something, anything."

"But I…" His words stop short and he fears he's all out of them; his mind floods with only pictures, flashes, clips of her eyes, pale hands, tight curls splayed across her collarbone.

"No excuses. Go, Jess!" she persists, and he yields, dejectedly walking to his desk.

His hand is slow to pick up the pen, his fingers winding around the plastic. Unconsciously, he scrawls letter after letter, loopy y's and strict r's. He realizes minutes later that the word is coming without consent, filling the paper as his muscles tighten. He turns his head and watches her form slip into the couch, closed eyes, parting lips. _Rory Rory Rory_.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter should have been done earlier, since I had two snow days this week. And yet, it's still very short. Sorry. That's what you get when I write a multi-chapter fic. Not much to explain about this one, just hope you like it. Please review if you are reading/liking it. Or even if you aren't liking it, feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

XxXxX

He wakes to a whirling sound streaming from the bathroom, water pooling in the porcelain sink. The sheets are wrapped tightly around his legs and his fists hold the blankets over his shoulders. The blinds are shuttering open and closed, stark wind howling through the cracks in the windows. She's leaning over the sink, hair escaping her grasp as she sweeps it away from her face. Water trickles from her cheeks, forehead, chin, and his sweatshirt that she has loosely thrown over her frame is dotted with dampness.

"Jess?" she calls, blindly reaching for a towel on the wall.

"Yeah?"

"Just seeing if you were awake."

"I'm not," he retorts, groaning as he squirms beneath the covers. She rolls her eyes, settling the towel over the metal rack. He's standing now, his boxers slack around his disappearing waist, and she peeks from the close proximity. Jutting hips and arms that slope slightly with muscle play in front of her, his skin shifting over the joints as he reaches for a shirt.

"Okay, sorry, carry on," Rory grins, padding into the bedroom. She inspects a pair of jeans draped over the foot of the bed and tosses them to him, a silent blush flooding her face. Her mind slips back to last night and her eyes drift, searching for his cigarette. "So, when did you smoke it?"

"What? Oh. Late, or early… I don't know, you were passed out on the couch," he answers, hiding a smile. "I went outside; I didn't want to bother you."

"Wasn't it snowing?" She squints and retracts the blinds on his double windows. The snow is thick, much more substantial than before, and it has already begun to ice over, glassy and smooth. She thinks of his slender lips curling the grey smoke, fiery lungs beneath his ribs and the bitter taste on his tongue.

"That, or my lighter was just being particularly stubborn," he reasons, his eyebrows arching toward his forehead. A sudden melody fills the space and Rory rushes toward the living room, rifling through her purse.

"Hello?" Pause, a breath. "Logan." Her voice falls flat, a standard pitch, void of sensation or any other distinct feeling. Jess' eyes catch hers, water in coffee; brown overtakes. She quickly conceals her face from view.

It's minutes before he hears even a sound; mild protesting and dissent drain from her mouth as she perches on the arm of a chair. When she hangs up, closes her phone, her face crumples like a paper doll's, creased. He's walking now, tense, because comforting has never been his forte and she's frenetically wiping her eyes with the tips of her fingers. The attempt is futile; her light skin is dirty with day old mascara.

"What happ--- is everything okay?" She performs an odd mix of simultaneously nodding and shaking her head, tossing weak waves of hair over her shoulders.

"We broke up. He, he broke up with me. I knew it was coming, it just feels different, w-worse, when it actually happens, you know?" She manages between unsteady breaths, gathering a tissue in her fingers. Jess is unsure of what to say; he's really never experienced it. Each time, he leaves, and there is no breaking up, no discussion or crying or trying to fix it. His mouth hesitates.

"I'm sorry," he begins, and finds it strange that he's saying these words, but he comes to understand that it is more of a sentiment than an apology.

"Look at me. God, look at me," Rory murmurs, staring at her folded hands. And he looks: her cocktail dress flares slightly away from her narrow waist, the thick tulle snagging her nude hose underneath; his sweatshirt is much too large, and she's swimming in letters spelling The Clash, "London Calling" spread across the small of her back; and her broken doll face, half-closed figurine eyes, those painted lips staggering through breaths.

His gaze catches her off guard, and his hands gradually find her waist, buried in his clothes. She reacts, delayed, moving her fingers to his neck. The distance, however small, becomes a crisis, and she's pulling air from his mouth. They're a mess of crashing lips and cold hands, weaving limbs and flesh as he draws her to him. They're a disaster, undeniably, but she's breathing him in, Jess-oxygen, and right now, it's required.


End file.
